The Smell of Burning Wings

I lit a match, they called it grace,
The moths arrived with whispered pleas, 
Their hunger wore a tender face. 

I fed them light, I bent my knees,
A wick that flickered, slow to learn, 
They took, they swarmed, they called it ease. 

A warmth too constant starts to burn, 
Yet frost invites the bitter fist, 
To yield is ash, to guard is spurn. 

They call me cruel when I resist, 
Yet scorned me soft, a hollow shell, 
A kindness blind is kindness missed. 

They drank me dry, they wished me well, 
A monument of smoke and bone, 
Then cursed the drought, the empty well. 

To give is loss—to spark, or turn to stone
A caged song or crumbled throne?